Polka Dots and Moonbeams
by unwinding fantasy
Summary: The fact is undeniable now. Spectacles maketh the grouch. [kinda sorta onesided Ishida x Inoue][Complete]


**Title:**_ Polka Dots and Moonbeams_  
**Author:** unwinding fantasy (formerly Aqua Phoenix1)  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Bleach._  
**Rating:** K  
**Pairing:** (kinda-sorta-one-sided) Ishida x Orihime  
**Warning:** Fluff and lots of it. Spoilers for SS arc.

* * *

-o-o-

He's troubled. Brows crinkled like an unironed shirt, he occasionally switches to lie on his other side, eliciting that horrible plastic-cups-crumpling noise that hospital blankets make. Lamp-light, dim and artificial, lends his skin a pallid cast, yellowing the contours of his face, refracting in rapier-thin slivers off his glasses. Those rectangles of light where his eyes should be raise goosebumps on her arms, their ever-present vigil making him appear a soldier alert even in sleep or a soulless golem. Rolling her unease into a ball of dough and shutting it firmly in the oven to burn, Orihime leans forward to gently remove those glasses, plucking them from their usual outpost on the bridge of his nose.

Ishida stirs. Orihime holds her breath -- she wanted to talk to him but not at the expense of disturbing his recuperation -- and her mouth falls open of its own accord because now, without that cold glass barrier between him and the world…

She watches him. He exhales softly and relaxes, no longer appearing so unrestful beneath his dreams.

She means to set the item down on the bedside table but the transformation is so remarkable that she has to test the theory. The glasses slide back on and sure enough, solemn Ishida is back. Off, on. Off, on. When he mumbles something and bats at imagined insects hovering over his face, Orihime starts guiltily and pulls away, turns to face the opposite wall as if by not looking at him she'd have washed-clean hands instead of red-handed ones.

Square and small as it is, the mirror still stands out where it dangles above the washbasin as a flying saucer might hang in the sky, foreboding yet enticing. In Orihime, it elicits the feeling she gets when a shadow falls over her and she doesn't know if the owner is a friend or not, the keen anticipation making butterflies flitter in her stomach. She approaches it, looks at her reflection for a moment, recognition brightening her gaze as she notices for the first time all the changes she's been through since entering Soul Society. Hair's a tad frayed, cheeks aren't quite so apple-round and _'I'm getting skinnier but my boobs are __**still**__ watermelons,' _she thinks, impressed by her body's fortitude. Promptly, her brain proposes the concept that if she was reincarnated she'd be a camel because they actually have a use for big bumps.

She wonders if she'll ever stop looking like a pretty high school girl, sugar and moonbeams and fairy dust. How is it that Ishida manages to affect such a cool atmosphere, at once knight and executioner, a combination that impresses her (though she still hasn't admitted it to him)? To be sure, his attitude makes other kids fidget and sidle out of the classroom to whisper strange, mean things behind his back. Last Halloween, Asano had even packed garlic into his lunchbox, convinced Ishida was an evil creature that needed warding off. Ichigo had said it only worked on _vampires_ and if Ishida was a vampire he wouldn't be walking around in broad daylight, would he, dumbass? Orihime hadn't added, "And he carries a crucifix, too," because she hadn't known at that point, had only seen him stitching some crosses onto a pair of socks once.

(Every locker in the general vicinity of Asano's had stunk for days afterwards.)

Sighing, she brushes droopy bangs out of her eyes, figuring her classmates are too absorbed in their flyaway lifestyles to pay attention to the quiet boy in the third row, someone who's a little harder to understand, who requires an effort a quick-fix world isn't prepared to exert. They're happy dancing to their own beats, letting days streak by like lightning -- pretty (really pretty; Orihime loves the way lightning tracks livid-blue zigzags across a dark sky) and short-lived, even the most powerful merely leaving a vague imprint on the retinas.

They just lack the patience, she concludes with a firm nod. She knows she's ditzy, forgetful, always (mostly) smiling, an incurable klutz and a whole heap of other adjectives that Ishida would be able to point out when he woke up but she _isn't_ impatient. Never that.

And anyway, it's not like it's hard work on her part, getting to know Ishida -- she likes people, thinks everyone should have a reason to smile. Whereas others are _pikura, _crammed full of glitter, one click and _pop!_ they're out of the machine, he's more like a photograph from an old-fashioned camera. You can glance at a snapshot and know its meaning straight away but proper photos require a degree of care when they're developing. Before you can appreciate the nuances concealed within the borders you have to study the image and then if they're _really _good you can frame them and hang them on your bedroom wall. It doesn't even matter if the colours clash because that simply means it's time for a new coat of paint.

Orihime blinks at her reflection then, knowing she was thinking something important. Unfortunately not only has her train of thought derailed, the driver's been abducted by aliens, the passengers are either shrieking karaoke or playing _go_ and the mechanic has taken up residence in the end carriage where he's worshipping a statue made of spare parts and super glue. She does remember what started this tangent though: the glasses and that funny expression of Ishida's, the one that declared sleeping to be the most serious business of all and _don't interrupt me, I'm busy studying the inside of my eyelids. _He probably got A+'s for sleeping too. Orihime glances at him -- he's rolled onto his side, hand lightly curling into crumpled hospital bedcovers -- and notes the still-there expression of semi-ease/semi-severity, then looks back at her mirror-twin. It's amazing how something as simple as _eyewear_ can exact such change, she marvels.

_Impulsive _is another word to describe her.

The glasses feel cold, especially the part where the lenses touch the outer corners of her eyes. Chestnut locks are brushed from where they've fallen into her face again while fingers, quick and delicate, attempt to cultivate her bangs into a different shape. Orihime allows herself one last smile before initiating the training session.

The fact is undeniable now. Spectacles maketh the grouch.

She stands there practicing her Ishida expression, one that consists of over the shoulder I-hate-shinigami glares and chin tilted downwards don't-bore-me-with-your-miniscule-intellect stares. She uses her middle finger to push glasses back up, the bare hint of a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips. She grabs a spare bed-sheet from the cupboard and wraps it round her shoulders in a makeshift cape. She's just about to say, "On my Quincy pride," when the walls of her castle in the sky come crumbling down at the sound of a polite cough.

"Inoue-san…?"

She's not (very) embarrassed. It's the unfamiliar note in his voice that startles her, one that reminds her of a slightly out-of-tune piano -- something's a tad off but you can't quite puzzle out what. He's sitting upright now, head tilted to the side as if scrutinising faceless shadows through a stained-glass window, rubbing at his sleep-fuddled eyes. Cheerily -- _extra _cheerily after that brief bout of solemnity -- she returns the greeting, rubbing the back of her neck, "Ishida-kun!"

He sits a little straighter at the sound of her voice. Fingers fumble at the bedside table, his gaze firmly planted on the tabletop. The cape, discarded when her name was announced, has pooled around her ankles so she carefully tiptoes out of the linen jungle, bending down to unwind one particularly persistent corner where it caught on her shoe heel. Utilising Sado steps to compensate for lost time, three giant strides are all it takes and she's crossed the room to stand by Ishida's side.

His lips are pursed now as his quest takes him from tabletop to drawers. Curious, she leans closer, observes deft digits sift through nurses' records and medicine bottles, past a bible and that badly drawn get well soon card from Ichigo that he hadn't cremated after all. "Can I help?" she says, making him jump. Those long-fingered archer's hands, along with Ishida's entire body, leap away; Orihime moves back in time to avoid having him collide with her chest, wondering what she's done this time. Considering the odd assortment of things he didn't like (the word_ haphazard_; buttons) she guesses having an aversion to her _Honeysuckle Belle_ perfume would be within the realms of probability…

"Please try not --" he begins, then angles his head backward and looks at her face. She returns the frank inspection. Eventually, after one long squinting study he says, "You have my glasses?" and there's only the slightest question in his voice, giving her the choice of whether to justify herself or not.

'_Even though Ishida-kun has every right to demand an answer, he doesn't want to make me uncomfortable.' _She blushes a bit, both touched by his concern and yes, definitely guilty now for abusing it.

Feeling she owes him, she blabs an explanation. It involves playing dress up with Sora when they were young and windows being the eyes to your soul and acting tough like movie heroes who never seem to run out of ammo. Ishida (kind of) smiles and rubs his forehead like it hurts and (kind of) smiles again. Once she's talked herself silly, she flops down on the tail-end of his bed, pleased with her storytelling abilities.

* * *

Ordinarily he's a fast learner but by the end of the meandering tale -- complete with windmilling arms and superhero poses, actions weaved together in a dizzying pattern that even an expert sewer cannot follow -- Ishida finds deciphering some of the fancies she's concocted to be beyond his abilities. 

Gently, he asks if he could have his glasses back now.

"Oops! Sure thing." Inoue slips the runaway object off and invades his personal space. And while one would imagine this to be a routine occurrence considering the space in question consists of a three-foot radius around Ishida's body, he's still caught off-guard -- this invader has the in-built ability to negate his defences. A first-class security breach, Inoue bypasses the guards, spotlights and snarling Dobermans too and touches him. He pretends he's not blushing and goes to adjust his glasses, realises her hand's still there too late and blushes all the more for it.

Her voice is tinged with concern when she asks, "Are you okay? You don't have a fever, do you?" A hand looms over his forehead, poised to gauge his temperature.

"I'm fine," he yelps, fixated on the Hand of Impending Doom. The analytical portion of his brain marvels at her ability to remain oblivious to his discomfort. How could she _not_ notice she'd nearly knocked him out with her -- gods, he can't even _think _the word!

A single baffled, "Oh," falls out of her mouth.

He sighs, relieved.

"Are you sure you're feeling well?" she continues, withdrawing to the foot of the bed -- still too close but at least he can breathe again. "You hardly got time to rest when Kurosaki-kun and the others were here and after that… You didn't look happy when you were sleeping…"

Heart-rate skyrockets again. She's been watching him _sleep!_ He overcomes the compulsion to go comatose and instead attempts a reassuring smile, hating himself for affecting such second-rate comfort. Practiced at reticence he might be, though it's never bothered him until now, where every emotion he produces seems white-washed in comparison to Inoue's spirit. Next to her Ishida's aware of how plain _morose _he appears and like a rose thorn needling his skin, this inescapable truth presses heavily on him. Worse, he has the inkling her emotional intuition has kicked in again -- tuned into the change of his usual contemplative silence to brooding melancholy, it's no wonder she's laughing nervously now.

For her sake, he wishes he was better company.

Which brings him to the next logical question, "Ah, Inoue-san. Where is everyone else?"

Her eyes widen suddenly and he feels a pang in his chest. Did that come across as cold? It's hard to tell -- Ishida's sort of lacking in the people skills department. "They were here all afternoon but Kuchiki-san, she told them they should leave you alone for the time being -- she was really, _really_ worried about you and, and even insisted I pass on her kind regards, because she was worried, like I said. She got you this present, see?" and she shoves a jar into his outstretched hands and bites her bottom lip. He doesn't even know he's moving forward to accept the gift until he feels the smooth glass cool against his palms. Inoue nods then, happy, as if she's just done something extremely clever.

Ishida stares at her, realises he's completely and unequivocally out of the loop. If indeed it _is_a loop. Knowing Inoue, it's probably more like some made-up, non-tessellating polygon.

(He blinks, aware that he was dangerously close to rambling. He must've hit his head harder than he thought.)

"I must thank Kuchiki-san next time," he ventures, eyes lowering to the jar, half-afraid of Inoue's reaction to this statement. He stares at the label. It stares back, the bold declaration – **Quince – **marching across it, jaunty and red-striped. Coming from anyone else it could be construed as a cruel joke but the ugly thought barely pokes into Ishida's mind before being banished. All he thinks is, _'Most definitely, Kuchiki did not get me this,' _and everything else fades into the sudden warm glow lighting his heart.

(He doesn't dare analyse her motives for pretending. Knowing full-well he's biased, he's afraid he'll only come to a conclusion he desires.)

"Inoue-san…" he tries for a compliment, manages, "A lot of thought went into this," and is surprised when she beams like they're the nicest words anyone's ever bestowed on her.

Inoue holds up a finger and adopts a lecturing tone. "Hospital food is so terrible, almost as bad as aeroplane food, so in the morning you'll at least be able to have a yummy breakfast. This jam's great. A little bitter at first but once you get over the initial shock it's actually… kind of sweet."

Ishida coughs. Clearly he's over-analysing again. He glances around for a clock, finds none. Wonders if he's the only one that suddenly finds the room too small, too hot. "It's getting late," he says, noting the dim edges of twilight touching the window sill, the way moonbeams bounce off her shining hair. He hopes she catches the dismissal.

For the first time, she averts her gaze, worry creasing the corners of her eyes. Staring downward. Staring at _his_ hands. Her own hands begin fidgeting, tracing the miserable grey plaits of her school skirt, tugging at the worn fabric. Suddenly, she clasps them together, steady, and raises uncertain eyes to his.

"Back then… What exactly happened, Ishida-kun?"

Of course he knows what she's asking. Maybe the prying question eventuated because there's no way she could comprehend how personal an answer she's seeking. Maybe she's just fed up with his aloof attitude and evasive answers. Either way, Ishida presses his lips together and dodges the burning honesty of her gaze, looking down at hands that have twisted into knots. Powerless and useless, they're clutching each other desperately as a man who's had second thoughts about jumping off that building might flail for some purchase on fly-by balconies and window ledges, flooded anew with the conviction to live.

She whispers, "You can't do everything by yourself."

_On my own _had always sounded less depressing than _by myself._

He tells her everything. Even though upsetting her with such details is the last thing he wants, he also understands she can't be satisfied until she knows. Who is he to selfishly hold onto notions of protecting naivety when doing so would be sending her to purgatory? All too well, he understands the longing for absolution -- he knows exactly what she needs to hear. _It's not your fault. I'd never blame you. We'll always be friends._ He gets through the first two but the words stick on the last because after all, he doesn't have friends. There're people he hates and then people he tolerates, and then there's Inoue Orihime.

She doesn't fit into either category. She just makes his heart stutter.

When he's finished, a certain dullness he hadn't noticed before has left her eyes and for all his talk of going it alone, he feels a little better himself, glad that he's lifted the burden from Inoue's shoulders. The tight band of tension squeezing his head has vanished. She's sitting closer to him, lower back resting against his leg; it happened so gradually he didn't have time to react. It's not so bad as he might imagine, being surprised like that. Another curve of her lips, this one saying thank-you-so-incredibly-much, lighting her face with its genuine cheer. The abandon with which she throws those around never fails to astound him, the carefree way she parcels out happiness, and he has to ask, "How can you be so happy?"

She simply says, "Whenever I see someone without a smile, I try to lend them mine."

His chest tightens, or his heart swells.

For the first time in forever, Ishida smiles.

-o-o-

* * *

**End Notes:**  
- Oh Ishida. I love you to death but why do you have to be so damn hard to write? x.x 

- Title taken from a Frank Sinatra song of the same name.

- In case you couldn't tell, this takes place during Ishida's hospital stay in the Bount arc. (And don't get me started on how much I hate that filler...)


End file.
